Friday was a day of high drama in Israel. While many eyes were turned to the Heavens, celebrating the first Israeli astronaut in Space and relishing the delicious irony of Colonel Ramon?s having been involved in the bombing of the Iraqi nuclear reactor, five more children lost their father and another woman lost her husband. The dramatic death of a man being gunned down in front of his family, as his wife desperately tries to shield her young children, was lost behind the veil of a single word. He was a ?settler?, and worse, a believer in the teachings of the late Rabbi Meir Kahane.
Their home was built on disputed land according to some, or within the legal municipal borders of Kiryat Arba, say others. Either way, say the majority of the media and Israelis, it was a dangerous place. Lost, too, was the incredible barbarity of an act that saw a man sitting down at a Sabbath meal with his wife and children, only to have his home invaded by terrorists bent on murder.
If his death were not dramatic and tragic enough, further drama played itself out as the location of his final resting place became a battle between grief-stricken, aging parents, who wanted their son buried in Jerusalem, police forces who refused to recognize an isolated hilltop as a burial site, and a mourning, probably-still-in-shock woman who had suddenly found her home violated, her husband murdered, and one of her children lying in the hospital.
Despite her grief, or perhaps because of it, Livnat Ozeri had a single goal yesterday. She desperately tried to give her husband?s death the same meaning he gave his life. She wanted him buried on the hill on which he died, or at least close by, in the city that held his soul, Hebron.
There is something incredibly horrible and foreign in the image of a funeral party carrying a body for more than 12 hours back and forth between Jerusalem and Hebron. How strange that in a country where we often bury our dead within hours, this victim?s body was not interned quickly. What can it feel like, to accompany a body for so many hours, reluctant to let it go, reluctant to deny it rest? Can you imagine the grief of a woman who must fight to bury her husband where she believes he would want to be? Can anyone understand the agony of parents who would take their son?s body from his widow in order to bury him?
As the funeral procession of Rabbi Netanel Ozeri wound its way from Hebron to Jerusalem, from Jerusalem to Hebron, the drama and the pain grabbed the attention of some, but the news coverage focused more on the location of where he lived, as if that somehow justified his death, and what he believed, as if that should temper his loss.
I?ve always thought of Jerusalem and Hebron as the heart and soul of our people. The heart is Jerusalem. Its gentle beauty and the very meaning of its name, City of Peace, defines what we wish for ourselves and others. Its defiance and tenacity in refusing to surrender to attack after attack reminds us that we still have values that can set an example for others, that terrorists will not succeed in driving us from our holy places.
I am amazed when I hear Israelis say they are afraid to go to Jerusalem. I seldom have a greater sense of peace than when I walk in the city. It is a symbol of everything we have accomplished, and all that our enemies wish to take away from us. Jerusalem cries out to all of us, though most refuse to hear its pleas.
Hebron is our soul. The roots of our people are buried there. If you cut a tree from its roots it will die. It is true that there are thousands of Palestinians living in Hebron, but I am plagued by the thought that those who believe in giving Hebron to the Palestinians are misguided into believing that it will be enough to soothe the savage terrorist heart. Hebron is a majestic city, yet abandoned and forlorn by too many. I?ve seen it in the winter when it is damp and depressing and almost abandoned. I?ve seen it during the holidays, when the music bounces off the walls and thousands crowd the alleyways and, for a brief moment, the city rejoices because it hasn?t been forgotten. Hebron cries out to all of us, though most refuse to hear its pleas.
So Sunday, on a cloudy, dismal day, a funeral procession carried its burden, unable to find solace. It was the drama of parents against a daughter-in-law, the world against a settler, and the heart against the soul. Jerusalem or Hebron? A settler or a Jew? Where do you bury a 34-year-old man who was a scholar and a teacher? How can what a man believes be the deciding factor on how the world sees his murder?
They called Rabbi Netanel Ozeri a settler, though that was not why he was murdered. Hundreds of non-settlers have been murdered and thousands have been wounded in the last two years. Years ago, Yitzchak Rabin and others began talking of the settlers. It was easier, somehow, to accept the death of a settler than the death of another Jew, another Israeli, another victim.
?Settler?. The word is a harsh one, just as the action is. To settle something implies a struggle. The land does not give itself easily to being settled, and so settlers must be a tough lot. I?ve heard people say they hate the settlers, that all our problems come from the settlers and the settlements. But there was terrorism and death long before the settlements ever existed. When terrorists go into a home and shoot a man, does the location of that building mitigate our horror and pain?
Netanel means ?Gift of God? and the funeral procession, in their outrage and shock, could not bring itself to surrender the gift back to God. But most important, despite the morning papers that speak of the funeral of a ?slain ex-Kach activist,? there are five more children who have lost their parent, another spouse deeply in mourning, and another home that has been forever destroyed. Whether in Metzer or Kiryat Arba, Hadera or Otniel, we must mourn for all the gifts we have lost.
A father, murdered before his family, in his own home, at the end of a Sabbath meal, could find no rest as his body was pulled between the heart and soul of his people. Ultimately, when a settler is murdered in front of his children, have we not lost a father, a husband, a Jew?
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Paula R. Stern is the Founder and Documentation Manager of WritePoint, a technical writing company.
Their home was built on disputed land according to some, or within the legal municipal borders of Kiryat Arba, say others. Either way, say the majority of the media and Israelis, it was a dangerous place. Lost, too, was the incredible barbarity of an act that saw a man sitting down at a Sabbath meal with his wife and children, only to have his home invaded by terrorists bent on murder.
If his death were not dramatic and tragic enough, further drama played itself out as the location of his final resting place became a battle between grief-stricken, aging parents, who wanted their son buried in Jerusalem, police forces who refused to recognize an isolated hilltop as a burial site, and a mourning, probably-still-in-shock woman who had suddenly found her home violated, her husband murdered, and one of her children lying in the hospital.
Despite her grief, or perhaps because of it, Livnat Ozeri had a single goal yesterday. She desperately tried to give her husband?s death the same meaning he gave his life. She wanted him buried on the hill on which he died, or at least close by, in the city that held his soul, Hebron.
There is something incredibly horrible and foreign in the image of a funeral party carrying a body for more than 12 hours back and forth between Jerusalem and Hebron. How strange that in a country where we often bury our dead within hours, this victim?s body was not interned quickly. What can it feel like, to accompany a body for so many hours, reluctant to let it go, reluctant to deny it rest? Can you imagine the grief of a woman who must fight to bury her husband where she believes he would want to be? Can anyone understand the agony of parents who would take their son?s body from his widow in order to bury him?
As the funeral procession of Rabbi Netanel Ozeri wound its way from Hebron to Jerusalem, from Jerusalem to Hebron, the drama and the pain grabbed the attention of some, but the news coverage focused more on the location of where he lived, as if that somehow justified his death, and what he believed, as if that should temper his loss.
I?ve always thought of Jerusalem and Hebron as the heart and soul of our people. The heart is Jerusalem. Its gentle beauty and the very meaning of its name, City of Peace, defines what we wish for ourselves and others. Its defiance and tenacity in refusing to surrender to attack after attack reminds us that we still have values that can set an example for others, that terrorists will not succeed in driving us from our holy places.
I am amazed when I hear Israelis say they are afraid to go to Jerusalem. I seldom have a greater sense of peace than when I walk in the city. It is a symbol of everything we have accomplished, and all that our enemies wish to take away from us. Jerusalem cries out to all of us, though most refuse to hear its pleas.
Hebron is our soul. The roots of our people are buried there. If you cut a tree from its roots it will die. It is true that there are thousands of Palestinians living in Hebron, but I am plagued by the thought that those who believe in giving Hebron to the Palestinians are misguided into believing that it will be enough to soothe the savage terrorist heart. Hebron is a majestic city, yet abandoned and forlorn by too many. I?ve seen it in the winter when it is damp and depressing and almost abandoned. I?ve seen it during the holidays, when the music bounces off the walls and thousands crowd the alleyways and, for a brief moment, the city rejoices because it hasn?t been forgotten. Hebron cries out to all of us, though most refuse to hear its pleas.
So Sunday, on a cloudy, dismal day, a funeral procession carried its burden, unable to find solace. It was the drama of parents against a daughter-in-law, the world against a settler, and the heart against the soul. Jerusalem or Hebron? A settler or a Jew? Where do you bury a 34-year-old man who was a scholar and a teacher? How can what a man believes be the deciding factor on how the world sees his murder?
They called Rabbi Netanel Ozeri a settler, though that was not why he was murdered. Hundreds of non-settlers have been murdered and thousands have been wounded in the last two years. Years ago, Yitzchak Rabin and others began talking of the settlers. It was easier, somehow, to accept the death of a settler than the death of another Jew, another Israeli, another victim.
?Settler?. The word is a harsh one, just as the action is. To settle something implies a struggle. The land does not give itself easily to being settled, and so settlers must be a tough lot. I?ve heard people say they hate the settlers, that all our problems come from the settlers and the settlements. But there was terrorism and death long before the settlements ever existed. When terrorists go into a home and shoot a man, does the location of that building mitigate our horror and pain?
Netanel means ?Gift of God? and the funeral procession, in their outrage and shock, could not bring itself to surrender the gift back to God. But most important, despite the morning papers that speak of the funeral of a ?slain ex-Kach activist,? there are five more children who have lost their parent, another spouse deeply in mourning, and another home that has been forever destroyed. Whether in Metzer or Kiryat Arba, Hadera or Otniel, we must mourn for all the gifts we have lost.
A father, murdered before his family, in his own home, at the end of a Sabbath meal, could find no rest as his body was pulled between the heart and soul of his people. Ultimately, when a settler is murdered in front of his children, have we not lost a father, a husband, a Jew?
--------------------------------------------------------
Paula R. Stern is the Founder and Documentation Manager of WritePoint, a technical writing company.